Just A Kid
by child-ephemeral
Summary: Before his Sun Hill days, Dale Smith served time in Northern Ireland as a squaddie with the British Army. This is how it might have gone...


_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters (except Sergeant Evans and the northern squaddie). The others belong to some posh people from a production company down in London. Lucky production company._

_Notes: Predating PC and Sgt Smith, I took the army based part of Dale Smith's history and ran with it. 'Tony' is indeed that same 'Colour Sergeant Tony Mitchell' from 'Blurred Around The Edges'._

_Rating: Around a PG, for bad language. _

* * *

The smell of burning still hung in the air, hours later. Cars passed occasionally, their passengers looking over in morbid curiousity, transfixed by the empty shell, before driving off, leaving the car in resumed isolation at the side of the road. The November wind bit though the air, shaking the trees out of their stupor with a heavy gust that rattled the loose metal on the chassis. Spray painted markings remained on the road like chalk outlines at a murder scene. The Fire Brigade had come and gone, as had the Police, and the Army, all with little more to say than 'Oh, only the fifth this week."

Three days on, it had blended itself into its surroundings as if a permanent fixture on the landscape. The metal clashed against the greenery of the verges and hedgerows in an almost natural fashion, as if intended that way, the discord striking a harmony. Passengers no longer noticed the car, barely acknowledging its presence, moving on in search of newer, more interesting images of urban destruction.

The frame rocked as the wind caught it, pulling at its seating in the melted rubber once moulded to the wheel rims. Air whistled through a gap in the roof. Hours of rain saturated the shell, telltale orange staining spreading up doorframes and along welded seams.

* * *

Dale paced up and down alongside the car. It wasn't the first burnt out wreck he'd seen this week, and knew it wouldn't be the last. His flak jacket rustled as it rubbed against his camouflage gear. How he was supposed to move stealthily when his uniform sounded like velcro on sandpaper every time he moved, he had no idea. Shaking his head slowly, he moved to the rear of the car. Glass shards covered the road. Not window glass, he thought to himself, recognising it as the clearer, thinner bottle glass that the Provisional IRA were using in the latest barrage of homemade petrol bombs. He was almost getting used to the sight of it by now, a week in to his tour of duty and somehow feeling like he'd seen it all. That scared him more than anything else. 

"Oi, Smithy."

Dale stood a little straighter as another squaddie approached him. He liked it when they called him by his nickname, feeling like one of the lads, and less like the 'scared little mummy's boy' his father had always claimed he was. He remembered when he'd told him he was joining the Army. He still bore the bruises.

"Ey, no need to stand to attention lad, I'm not t'corporal." A stocky soldier appeared beside him, his brash northern tones even more powerful against the silence of their surroundings. "We're wanted back at HQ."

HQ was Crossmaglen. Even the mention of the place caused pulse rates to quicken and adrenaline to flow. When he'd first heard he was going to be stationed there, he'd wanted to jump for joy yet run and hide, both at the same time. Like a wild beast, you feared it, yet respected it in a mental conflict that never sat well with most. The most dangerous of the Provos were claimed to work from Crossmaglen, and were particularly hostile towards the forces stationed there. For such a small village, he'd pondered, it had one hell of a reputation.

Gazing back at the checkpoints littering the road behind him, Dale inhaled sharply as the vehicle turned towards the Army base. Columns of smoke dotted the horizon as homes, cars, belongings burnt away to nothing. It was like a warzone. He laughed to himself. It was a warzone. And he was right in the middle of it.

* * *

"Come on lad," A sturdy hand shook him awake. "Patrol at 5, get your arse out of bed." 

Dale groaned, not wanting to move. "What time is it?"

"4.30. Get up."

"Do I have to?"

"It's not like getting up for school son, you don't get up..."

"Okay, okay, I get it."

* * *

He stepped out into the cold morning air, gasping as the chill hit his lungs. "Bloody hell!" 

"Cold, is'ne it?" One of the squaddies from another unit, a Scottish guy he vaguely recognised, appeared beside him, cigarette in hand. Dale nodded vigorously, half hoping the movement would warm him up, but nerves exaggerated his movements.

"Where you from, mate?" The soldier's attempts at small talk were nothing new. As units changed over patrols, general conversation had become an art form.

"London...somewhere round Harringay."

"_Somewhere_ round Harringay, aye? You don't sound too sure there, mate!" Smoke drifted from his mouth as he spoke, curving and curling as it mixed with the vapour that appeared every time he breathed.

Dale laughed nervously. "Yeah, yeah. Stroud Green, it's not far. Sorry."

"Hey, don't worry." The squaddie smiled wryly. "Its tough out here, for anyone. Especially kids like you."

Dale tensed. Suddenly he felt like his father was in front of him once again, taunting and jeering, bearing down on him like he'd done so many times before. "I'm not a kid! I've done the training. I know the score. I'm a soldier, a fusilier, _mate_, just like you!"

"Calm down!" The man raised his hands in protest. "None of us should be here. Sure as hell no-one wants us here. But you're what, eighteen, nineteen?" He shook his head scornfully. "Your life's no' even started yet pal, you've done sweet fuck all really. Its no' right. But like you say, we're soldiers. We've just gotta get on w' it, and hope for the best. But..." The squaddie stubbed out his cigarette, holding his hand out to the younger man. "...good luck. I'm Tony, by the way."

Shaking his hand firmly, Dale relaxed slightly. "Smithy."

"Nice to meet you, Smithy." Tony turned to walk away. "Watch yourself. They're getting a wee bit rough out there."

Dale nodded, watching him disappear into the darkness. "That's what I'm worried about."

* * *

The streets lay quiet, deserted, betraying nothing of the tension that rocked the daylight hours. Streetlights bathed the discarded husks of petrol-bombed buildings in a fiery orange glow that seemed strangely appropriate. The night had evolved into an extended 'witching hour' where nothing stirred, nobody moved, and you certainly didn't venture out after hours. Unless you had no choice. 

There was something supernatural about patrolling Crossmaglen in the small hours, he thought. The shadows took upon lives of their own, each squaddie never knowing what danger they held, especially in a place where so many stood in such direct defiance of everything the soldiers represented.

There was no time to slacken off in a place where a blink of an eye meant the difference between life and death. Snipers lurked on every corner, in every crevice, anywhere they could secrete themselves away from view. There was no place for lapses in concentration when the stakes were so high.

* * *

"Unit five, are you receiving, over?" 

"Unit five, receiving, over."

"Movement sighted to your northwest. No weapons confirmed as yet. Over."

"Received, sir. Over."

* * *

Dale moved slowly along the wall, his gun heavy in his hands. His heart thudded in his chest and his stomach had dropped to his boots. "Come on..." he urged himself under his breath, "pull yourself together!" His eyes were wild, searching everywhere in the growing dawn light. His Sergeant slid up beside him, casting him a reassuring glance. "Smooth. Measured. Calm. Okay?" The Sergeant placated him, his voice as low as he could possibly make it. "Just keep breathing." 

Keep breathing. That was the key. Keep breathing. Surely half the battle was won, if you could keep breathing. Especially when so many people, so many men were going out of their way to ensure you didn't. Keep breathing. Keep breathing and you're all right.

The thoughts whirled round in Dale's head faster than he could keep track of them. He scolded himself. Now was not the time, nor the place to be losing control.

"Come on!" He urged himself forward, as the Sergeant slipped away from him, moving further towards the crossroads.

When they reached the junction, they had no choice. It was be seen, or stay where you where. Neither seemed like a particularly desirable idea. Nobody knew who could be watching, if anybody. But in such unpredictability, it was easier to think the worst. At least that left scope to be pleasantly surprised. A lot better than being caught unawares, he conceded.

"Smithy." The whisper broke the silence. "You go first. I'll follow. Just get across as fast as you can." The sergeant glanced across the road. "There's cover beside that wall. Get behind it." He fixed him with a stern look. "After three."

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three!"

Dale ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His chest burned as he forced the air, in, out, in, out. His muscles screamed as they pushed him faster.

And then he heard it.

* * *

The shot thundered in his ears. Chaos erupted around him and he felt helpless to stop it. Clutching his gun tight to his chest, he pushed himself further towards cover, as a flurry of bullets followed his steps. 

"Get down!" His sergeant's words echoed, and the men dropped to the ground, almost as one. The fear on their faces was mixed with an almost morbid excitement, knowing their proximity to death, somehow exhilarated by it.

He heard the familiar rattle of their regulation light machine guns as the sergeant returned fire. Falling back into himself, he followed the officer's eye line to a deserted house, a shadowed figure moving in an upstairs window.

"Bastard!" Dale cursed, reaching for his own weapon. Almost unconsciously releasing the safety catch, he focussed, took aim, and fired a cascade towards the window. The flash of light as the bullets escaped from his gun momentarily blinded him, but righting himself, he took aim once again, hearing the sergeant's shouts into his radio as he fired.

"Unit five, taking heavy fire on the Crossmaglen road. One target sighted, armed engagement in progress."

Dale paused, as the fire from the window seemed to tail off. Had he hit the sniper? He wasn't sure. Unsettled, he glanced toward his commander. The sergeant's glance gave nothing away.

A missile flew from the window. He heard the smash almost before it landed. Overwhelming light consumed him.

"Shit!"

* * *

He tossed and turned, trying and failing to make himself more comfortable. The bed was warmer than usual, and strangely softer. He opened his eyes to a light coloured room, the sterile decor confusing him. 

A man sat at the side of his bed, not speaking.

"Tony!" Dale sat up a little, wincing as his muscles ached at the movement.

"W-what happened?"

Tony smiled. "Petrol bomb. You didn't have time to move, it came right for you, apparently."

"What about Sergeant Evans?"

"Evans is fine. Smoke inhalation and minor burns, he's already back on duty."

"And me?" He knew how he felt, as his chest burned with each word.

"Same, but worse. The doc's seem to think everything's ok now. All a case of when you want to get back on duty. That is, if you want to come back at all?"

Dale rested his head back against the pillow, welcoming the coolness against his skin. He closed his eyes momentarily, his thoughts calm and collected. Glancing at Tony, he saw the man anxious, waiting for his reaction.

Smiling to himself, Dale nodded. "I aint a kid anymore, am I."


End file.
